Touch
by phati-sari
Summary: Touch is an exercise in what-if. It makes no attempt to stick to canon, but does endeavour to keep the characters as true to the serial as possible. The story makes use of adult themes. It features some coarse language and deals with sexual situations but is not explicit.
1. Chapter 1: Arnav

**Chapter 1: Arnav**

Arnav stood as Khushi came into their bedroom, her slim figure clad in a cream and wine-red _anarkali_ suit. It covered every inch of her body, and yet hugged her so well that it left little to the imagination.

Not that he needed his imagination where Khushi Kumari Gupta Singh Raizada was concerned.

Khushi ignored him thoroughly, stopping at the bureau and sliding off her brilliant red bangles before reaching for her hairbrush. Arnav sighed in relief.

Two hours ago, he'd stepped into the kitchen for a glass of water and found himself trapped with Di, Payal and Khushi. Their sisters had teased them – Chhote is making excuses to see his wife – and given alarmingly detailed innuendo before forcing Khushi to serve him dinner at the dining table. She'd fumed; throwing hostile looks his way for the entirety of their meal even as they'd fed one another to keep up the pretence of happy newly weds.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Arnav slid open the door to his – _their_ – wardrobe and pulled out a set of sleeping clothes. Electricity zipped along his skin, a gentle warning, and he turned to find Khushi standing a few feet away, her eyes flashing with some inner conflict.

He braced himself for the argument, mentally collating a series of insults and evasions to throw her off balance. He was so distracted that he missed the slight movement of her arm, and was thus startled into absolute stillness when Khushi placed her palm flat against his chest.

"Touch me," her voice was a low vibration.

His pulse skittered to a stop as the memories bombarded him - moving over and inside her as they succumbed to whatever madness that had gripped them that night.

That one beautiful disaster of a night.

Desperate for calm, he took a deep breath and found himself with a lungful of Khushi – jasmine, grapefruit, and the underlying sweetness that was her natural scent.

 _No goddammit. You can't, Arnav. Not again._

"What the hell?" the timbre of his voice reflected his panic, "What are you–"

"Touch me," she repeated, her eyes on the topmost button of his waistcoat.

"No. Khushi. No."

Arnav closed his eyes and gathered the willpower to step backwards but when he shifted his weight, Khushi's fingers – still over his pounding heart – tightened on his jacket.

 _Fuck._

"Don't do this," he warned her.

"The other night–"

"–should never have happened," he interrupted with a growl, "It was a mistake."


	2. Chapter 2: Khushi

**Chapter 2: Khushi**

A mistake. The most beautiful night of her life, and he was calling it a mistake.

Khushi trembled, her eyes on where her hand met his jacket. Against his heart. That heart had beat strong and fast against her palm on the night of their Bali-in-Delhi honeymoon as he'd held himself above her.

She closed her eyes against the memory.

"I want–"

"–no, you don't," he interrupted her again, "Stop this."

"I can't."

The night of their Bali-in-Delhi honeymoon had shown her what could be – _should be_ – between them. Heat and tenderness and passion and … for her at least … love.

She slid her hand across his chest, aiming for his tie, but he caught it in his strong grasp.

"Stop it," his eyes flashed with anger and what she now knew was desire.

 _If this is all I can have from you, then this is all I will ever ask of you, no matter how much I want more._

It would only be about physical need for him, she knew, but when he was with her in that way, she could pretend they had more. Khushi lifted her hand – and his with it – and placed both over her heart.

"Our heartbeats are one," she reminded him, "You want this too."

He wrenched his hand away and spun around, presenting her with the broad expanse of his back. She remembered the way those muscles had flexed and rippled under her touch. Her arm rose and she reached for him without being fully aware of her actions.

He turned at the lightest of touches to his shoulder, his eyes dark and his mouth twisted into a furious grimace.

"Look Khushi, I–"

Khushi leaned forward and pressed her lips to his jaw, inhaling the sandalwood-cedar scent of him. He stilled – his breath stalled as his pulse raced under her palm – and then roughly pushed her away.

She watched him walk away.


	3. Chapter 3: Arnav

**Chapter 3: Arnav**

He slammed the bathroom door shut and sagged against it.

 _Fuck._

She was irresistible – temptation personified – and he was drowning.

One night had changed everything. It was one thing to desire her, to imagine the feel and taste of her in the darkest hours of the night and know that it was an impossible fantasy. It was another to have devoured her and know that he could never do it again. To have touched and tasted and teased and …

 _Fuck._

Arnav reached into the shower cubicle and twisted the handle until the spray was as cold as possible. Stepping inside, he sank against the tiles, allowing the water to chill him through his clothes. His blood cooled gradually but his mind continued to race.

 _Does Khushi even realise what she's offering?_

Her body. No strings attached.

 _Does it make a difference?_

He wished he could say no but the truth was that it did. It mattered. _She mattered_. Khushi Kumari Gupta Singh Raizada was his wife, and he wouldn't - _couldn't_ \- treat her as anything less.

She deserved more.

 _My wife._

She had become his wife through coercion, and remained his wife due to a legal contract and the fear that he could compel the divorce of her sister and his brother. He could claim no rights over her body.

 _You shouldn't even want to, Arnav._

But he did. And he had.

That night had been punctuated with conflict. A honeymoon they could never have. A relationship that was lie. But it'd felt too goddamned real. Her hands, one in his and the other clutching his shoulder as they danced; her eyes, lowered and hiding secrets; her lips, trembling and begging to be kissed. Her lush form, clad in the suit he'd designed for her months earlier, when she'd first permeated his every thought and action.

And Shyam. Shyam gifting Khushi a bouquet of red roses; Shyam staring at her as they danced. A desperate kind of possessive jealousy had seeped into his veins. He'd laid claim to Khushi in every way he could. And she'd allowed it.

By the time they'd reached the relative privacy of their bedroom his body had sung for hers. And when she, in her trademarked clumsiness, had fallen on the bed and taken him with her, the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Khushi was always beautiful but she was ethereal when lit by the glimmering flame of a match. Her mouth had brushed against his jaw in her struggles to free herself from beneath his too-eager body, and they'd frozen for an eternity before his lips had sought hers.

Everything had blurred – teeth, nails, fingers, lips – into a symphony of quiet sighs and desperate moans. She'd snuggled into his side as they came down from their high, drifting into sleep with his name on her lips. He'd lain in the darkness as the cold fingers of regret crept into his heart, and had left before dawn to avoid facing her.

They'd never spoken of it; some silent pact prevented them from discussing the sheer beauty, and folly, of that night.

Until now.


	4. Chapter 4: Khushi

**Chapter 4: Khushi**

She sank onto the bed, a blush heating her cheeks as the enormity of she'd just done sank in.

 _Did I just ask him to …_

Yes, she had. Twice.

She prayed to Devi Maiyya to unmake the madness of the last few minutes - knowing it did no good - before praying for the strength to face him when he emerged from the bathroom.

 _Hai Devi Maiyya! What on earth possessed me to ask … that … of him?_

But she knew what had possessed her – a desire to feel close to him again, to feel his pulse race against hers, to feel safe and warm and _wanted_ in his embrace.

He'd felt so real. So _possible_.

 _How easy would it be to pretend it was real?_

She'd thought it was real, that he'd finally succumbed to what he'd begun confessing on Holi – _What I feel, what you feel, are the same_ – but that dream had been shattered when she'd woken in a cold, empty bed. When he'd refused to meet her eyes, when he'd avoided her touch – no matter how innocent – for three days straight, she'd realised how deeply he regretted it.

She'd craved any semblance of kindness from him since the night of their elopement, any sign that he cared for her at all, and that night had taught her that she could pretend. She could imagine herself in a reality where they had everything – closeness, understanding, love, desire, and passion.

Khushi had half-formed plans and wishes for the months after August. She knew she would have to move away – she couldn't stay in Lucknow or Delhi, where everyone knew her and her past. She needed to start anew somewhere else. Perhaps she could put her love of teaching to good use at an orphanage. Perhaps she could use her sweet-making skills in a new venture – though she was thoroughly lacking in finances.

She would never marry again, she knew, would never wear another man's _mangalsutra_ or _sindoor_. She would never feel another's touch. She loved him, fatalistically, irrevocably, and if these six months were the closest she would ever get to truly sharing her life with him, then these six months were all that she would ask for.

 _Devi Maiyya, help me create a lifetime of memories with him. I'll live my entire life in these next four months. I'll never ask you for anything else._

Khushi, who had never imagined the intimacy, fire, or passion of that one night, was honest enough in her heart to admit that she wanted to share all of herself with him. She craved his soft sounds, his whispered reassurances, and his gentle touch. She had always loved the brilliance of his mind, the sharp focus of his attention, and craved the thrill of having it directed at her, and only her. She craved the safety of him, the feeling of homecoming and belonging.

Her idle gaze snagged on his nightclothes, pooled in a pile where he'd been standing. She rushed over to gather them up.

"Arnav-ji," she knocked on the bathroom door, "Your … your clothes."

"Fuck off."

"I'll leave them here," she said quietly, refolding the clothes and placing them next to the door.


	5. Chapter 5: Arnav

**Chapter Five: Arnav**

He emerged into an empty room. At first, he was numb with relief that she couldn't weaken him further with her touch and the neediness in her voice. But as the minutes lengthened and unspooled into an hour, and then two, he began to worry.

He crept out into the corridor, passing his sister's room, then his grandmother's, and emerged onto the upstairs landing. It was dark downstairs except for a sliver of light that leaked from underneath the door to the guest room. Arnav opened the door carefully to find that Khushi had fallen asleep on top of the duvet. He approached silently, his heart becoming heavy as he realised that she'd cried herself to sleep.

 _Were those tears for what she cannot have with Shyam? Or what she cannot have with me?_

And herein lay the crux of his problem. Even if Khushi were somehow able to offer him her body and nothing else, he could not offer her the same. His love for her had seeped into every fibre of his being, and it was getting harder and harder to hide. Especially tonight, after she'd unwittingly revealed that she remembered every moment of Holi.

 _Our heartbeats are one._

He couldn't succumb to her again. It would destroy the meagre defences that remained in place around his heart.

Love.

 _When did I fall in love with this exquisite woman who threatens my sister's marriage?_

She'd been in tact when he'd taken her. A primal part of him had roared in victory as he'd unmade her innocence ("I'm sorry Khushi, I'll ... I'll be gentle but this will hurt a little"), but the implications behind that purity weighed heavily on his mind.

 _What convoluted moral code does she live by?_

Life had taught him that a woman willing to carry on a dalliance with a married man was unlikely to insist on remaining untouched until marriage. And it had been painfully obvious, even through the haze of his barely controlled desire, that she'd been thoroughly untouched. Unawakened. _Uninitiated_ in every sense.

 _What if the existence of one innocence implies the truth of the other?_

Innocence had poured off Khushi from the moment he'd laid eyes on her. His assumptions about her immorality and indecency on the night they'd met had led him to act in ways that now shamed him deeply. He tasted bile at the back of his throat whenever he thought of the things he'd done, and the things _he'd thought of doing_. But the undeniable truth of what he'd witnessed on the terrace, coupled with the vile implications in Shyam's words, had cemented in his mind the notion that it had all been an act. Her lack of guile, her disregard for his wealth, her lowered eyes and gasping breath when he neared her – all a performance to trap him in the most delicious of ways.

 _What if she is blameless in this?_

Arnav's fingers curled into a fist as the implications sank in. If Khushi was innocent, then the manner of their elopement was atrocious. If she was innocent, then his treatment of her had been nothing short of barbaric. Perhaps even criminal.

 _If she is innocent, then I am a monster._

"Fuck."


	6. Chapter 6: Khushi

**Chapter Six: Khushi**

Khushi startled awake at the sound of her husband's voice. He stood mere feet from her, his hand fisted and his eyes hooded.

"What's wrong, Arnav-ji?" she sat up quickly and stretched out her hand.

He ignored it. "Why are you here?"

"I …" her eyes dropped to the duvet, "I thought it would be easier …"

"It's not."

She nodded as she folded her hands in her lap.

"Come back to bed, Khushi."

Her eyes snapped up to his, hope-want-desire flaring inside her, but he shook his head.

"It will cause ... issues ... if anyone finds out that you spent the night here."

Of course. The _happily-married-couple_ fiction must be preserved at all costs. Blinking sleep from her eyes, Khushi slid off the bed and shuffled to the door. She stumbled on the threshold, and his hands wrapped around her waist to steady her. His warmth seeped through her in a rush.

"Careful, Khushi."

Perhaps it was the sleep that still laced her thoughts. Perhaps it was her emotional exhaustion. Perhaps it was her bruised heart. Whatever it was, it gave her the courage to turn and bury her face against his neck.

"Khushi," he breathed, his hands still on her waist.

"I don't want to be careful," she confessed.

"Stop this, please."

"Aren't you my husband, Arnav-ji?"

"I am," he sighed into her hair.

"Then … isn't it your duty, your right, to take care of me? To … to fulfil my every … every need?"

"Khushi …"

"Take care of me."

He sighed as he scooped her up, carrying her back upstairs on steady feet. Khushi burrowed as close as she could and felt his surrender in the loosening of his muscles and tightening of his grip.

"I remember Holi," she whispered.

Silence.

But he murmured an answer as he stepped over the threshold to their bedroom. "I know."

"Do you remember Holi?"

"Ssshhhh."

He gently placed her on the bed and pulled the duvet up to her chin before moving away.

"Not the sofa," she caught his shirt, "Not tonight."

"Are you sure?"

Khushi nodded, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. He slid under the duvet with her. She pressed as close as possible, her head on his shoulder and her arm wrapped around his ribcage. It was a long time before he relaxed against her, and even longer before his hand came up to stroke her hair.

"Khushi, this isn't just this, do you understand?" he whispered, "It's everything."

All at once, she realised that it was easier to maintain the pretence when he didn't say the words she'd always imagined him saying. He didn't need to lie to make her feel better about what she wanted from him.

"It's whatever you want it to be," she told him quietly.

 _It's everything to me._

He shifted and opened his mouth as if to argue, but Khushi silenced him by pressing her lips to his.

It was easier when they didn't talk.


	7. Chapter 7: Arnav

**Chapter 7: Arnav**

He was pliant and eager – too eager – and moved under her guidance as if he had no will of his own. And, if he was honest, he didn't, not now, with his mouth hovering over hers and her body trembling against his.

She hadn't believed his words; perhaps first he'd spoken to her without guile or ulterior motive in two months.

He'd fed her so many lies that she couldn't stomach his truth.

Khushi slid her hand inside his shirt. He hissed against her skin as heat spread throughout his body. She arched up into him, trying to bring their bodies closer.

 _No control. Just like your father._

He rolled away. "Khushi, I can't."

Arnav stared at the ceiling. His heart hammered. His nausea subsided in tiny increments.

She was quiet for so long that he started to fear for himself. For them, for whatever it was that tied them to each other.

"Will you do something for me, Arnav-ji?"

 _Anything._

"Yes."

"It con-confuses me when we pretend we're in … in lo-love for our families. Can we stop pretending?"

 _Do you really think it's all an act, Khushi?_

It had ceased to be pretence long ago. Perhaps it'd never been pretence for him.

"Our families will expect us to behave in certain ways," he explained gently.

"Then can we pretend all the time? Will you act as my husband in public and in ... in private?"

Much later, Arnav would come to identify this moment, as the soft echo of her trembling voice faded away, as the moment he began to truly believe in her innocence.

He turned to face her. She was staring determinedly at the stars she'd hung above _her side_ of his bed. He remembered, suddenly, her tears as she shared her deepest fears at the gazebo.

Where had that girl gone, the one who had compelled him to apologise, and who was this woman in his bed, willing to share her body but not her heart?

 _Have I broken the woman I love so completely that she prefers my feigned affection to the truth?_

Was it possible to restore her to the woman he'd met all those months ago?

"What if I can't pretend like that, Khushi?" he asked softly.

His wife smiled, an insincere stretch of her lips that didn't reach her eyes.

"It's okay, Arnav-ji. I understand."

 _No, you don't. But I'll make you understand._

It took all of his courage to say it.

"Khushi, that night meant everything to me."

She turned slowly to look at him. She blinked once. He tried again.

"This marriage is important to me."

She continued to stare. Her bottom lip trembled.

"You are important to me," he whispered his confession.

Khushi shook her head slowly, as if trying to deny his words, and hope blossomed somewhere in his chest. She was finally listening.

"I have to show you something."

Arnav rushed to his cupboard and slid out a large wooden box. He returned to her. Khushi sat up when he urged her to, her attention fixed on the box, and his hand trembled as he opened it.

Khushi gasped.

A scrap of fabric, purple streaked with yellow, lay on top. The piece of her dupatta he'd taken from his car. Arnav lifted it out and handed it to her.

Next, he took out a sheaf of papers and let her look through them. The contract she'd signed with him. Her resignation letter. The love letter she'd written on Lavanya's behalf. Khushi read them slowly, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks.

When she finally looked up, her eyes were full of questions. Arnav shook his head, forestalling them, and handed her the glass shards he kept wrapped in cloth. A red bangle from the guesthouse. A pink bangle from the first week of their marriage.

He handed her a tiny silver key and watched as she sobbed, her shoulders shaking. She threw herself into his arms and he cradled her soft form against his chest, whispering nonsense until she quieted.

"There's one more thing," he said softly, reaching for a tiny box.

Khushi opened it to reveal three minuscule pearls.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8:**

 **Khushi**

The pearls rolled around in her palm, and she knew, instinctively, that they were from the night they'd met. Perhaps he'd picked them up from the floor. Perhaps his cleaners had saved them.

It didn't matter. What mattered was that he'd kept them for eight months.

Khushi couldn't count the number of times she'd wished that she'd kept his _mannat ki chabhi_ , that tiny silver key that had come to represent him and all of the hopes and wishes and dreams she'd woven around him. To discover that he had his own equivalent – a _collection_ of them, in fact – shattered every defence she'd constructed since he'd asked her to marry him for six months.

Khushi returned the pearls to their box and placed everything on the table next to her before reaching for her husband. He sat against the headboard and settled her on his lap, resting her head on his shoulder.

"All this time … you …" she whispered, holding him tightly.

"Yes."

"Then why did you … we eloped … and Jiji … you forced—"

"—Khushi, I promise we'll discuss everything," he interrupted, "But tomorrow. It's late, get some sleep, please. Let me ... just let me hold you tonight."

She was suddenly lightheaded with relief. She turned into his shoulder as happiness burst out of her, turning a sob into a soft giggle. She held onto him, half afraid that she was dreaming, and relished the way his hold tightened in response.

She needed so much more than holding. She needed to show him how she felt, to share her joy that he felt for her as deeply as she felt for him. She wanted to lose herself in him, to revel in his touch and know that finally, _finally_ , things were going to be okay.

Because they could work through anything now.

 _We can overcome anything. We have each other. We've always had each other, we were just too blind to see it._

She slipped her hand inside his shirt and pressed a kiss to his neck.

"Are you sure?" he breathed.

Her heart flooded with emotion at the question. Even now, he was taking care of her.

She bit his shoulder gently in answer.

. . . . . . . . . .

 **Arnav**

 _Stop. Stop._

The warning reverberated through him but grew fainter with every kiss. She tasted sweet, every bit as dangerous to his diabetic heart as sugar.

 _This is wrong. She'll hate you in the morning. You'll break her heart when you tell her the truth._

But the roar of his pulse and the desire that raced through his veins, the echo of her soft sighs and the _feel_ of her drowned it out.

She arched into his touch.

 _Aren't you my husband, Arnav-ji?_

He'd known, when she uttered those words, that it was no longer a question of _if_ he would surrender but _when_. He could deny himself anything - _everything_ \- but he wasn't strong enough to resist both his desire and hers. Tonight, he'd be everything she needed him to be. Husband. Confidante.

Lover.

She'd once danced in front of their families in a royal blue sari and accused him of keeping his heart under lock and key. He felt the last of his restraints unlock and melt away as they came together. There was no going back. There would be no other women, not when his pulse raced in tandem with hers.

She gasped in relief or in pleasure ... or in pain. He froze.

"Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head as she smiled at him, and there was so much trust in that smile that his breath hitched in his chest. She whispered something that sounded suspiciously like _"You could never hurt me"._

That voice, the soft warning of the part of him that knew that his actions were unjust, a betrayal of the greatest kind because she was offering him everything and he was _still_ holding back the hideous truth, would return with the dawn.

But by then, it would be far too late.

* * *

The End

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _"WHAT!?", I hear you say, "THAT'S IT? WHERE'S THE REST? Where's Arnav's confession of the vile things he thought Khushi capable of, where's Khushi's anger and hurt, her departure from Shantivan, Arnav's much longed-for redemption?"_

 _TOUCH was never intended be that story. TOUCH was always about this one night, an exploration of the idea that IF they'd succumbed to their physical attraction once, would they do so again, and what would it take to weaken both of them so that they did. For Arnav, it was the reminder that he is Khushi's **husband** \- he has clearly defined ideas about marriage and has always respected (even craved) the institution even as he rallied against love. For Khushi, it was his words - "The Bali-in-Delhi night meant everything to me ... You are important to me" - finally undoing the damage of his words on Diwali - "This night, and you, hold no significance for me."_

 _I don't think I will return to TOUCH. I may, as I might return to any and all of my stories, but it's unlikely. But even if I did, it would not include Khushi leaving Shantivan. Khushi would never leave her husband (that we may disagree with her doesn't change this essential truth about her)._

 _As always, thank you very much for reading and for leaving reviews. They are all very much appreciated :D_


End file.
